If you squint you can almost see him riding the pale twilight along the speckled curvature. You can feel his presence in the air just beyond the horizon. In clenched teeth you can hear him in the transactional nature of love. He being body, he being commodity, he being the flea bitten innards of common courtesies.

If you let the blood pool into viscous puddles of amethyst you may get a sense of when he abandoned wonderment. A fecund scent of brief interludes, blessed in the private indescretions - you lie to yourself when the mirror can no longer reflect your delusions.

A wavy vision painted in distant heat, he is, perfectly still as Earth rotates in his temporal proximity. He being the discarded lakes pregnant with rusty cans and broken clocks.